


drown in living water

by canticle



Series: a tornado full of barbed wire [2]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Aftercare, Blood, Light BDSM, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, i guess? there's some weird d/s dynamics going on in there, no bondage or sadomasochism tho, please don't look at me it was an accident
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-11 05:14:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18423597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canticle/pseuds/canticle
Summary: “You’re not a very good listener,” Joker interrupts him, his hand rising to place one gloved finger against Akechi’s lips. He’d bite it if he wasn’t positive that Joker would retaliate. “You look. Don’t try to lie to me, Crow—” he says it mockingly, as if he’s only doing it to appease him. “I have more eyes than just mine.”“So the entirety of the Phantom Thieves has nothing better to do than track what I’m looking at?” Akechi snaps. Joker’s hand moves, his thumb pressing into the corner of his lips, stroking up his cheek. “Why are you touching me?!”Joker laughs at that, a low deep rumble that does things to Akechi that he refuses to think about on more than a reactionary level. “Maybe for the same reason that you like to stare at my ass.”





	drown in living water

**Author's Note:**

> look i'm sorry this horrifies me too; akeshu bandwagoning??? from canticle??? i'm just too sad and gross-feeling to write the pegoryu we all deserve lately so you get this instead
> 
> this fic draws inspiration from [this piece of art](https://twitter.com/lemon_basilisk/status/1112223016312668160) by [lemon_basilisk](https://twitter.com/lemon_basilisk); it's a beautiful art and it gave me feelings and so i wrote the feelings down and made a garbage fic
> 
> anyway bye

The third time Joker intercedes for him is the worst.

He's stronger than any of these thieves, Joker included; in the back of his mind Loki seethes angry, hungry, aching to be let free and loose his wrath on all of them. Not yet, it's not time yet; let him parade around in his white suit and militant epaulets and smile with his teeth kept behind his lips. Soon enough they'll be as good as dead, or better than.

But he's not used to working in a team. Any obstacle he can't brute force he's had to outwit, though nothing is much of a match for his Almighty skills.

That doesn’t stop his idiotic leader from stepping in for him once, then again, in the middle of the casino.

“Watch your back, Crow!” Isshiki Wakaba’s daughter shouts from somewhere above and also in his mind, a unique sensation he loathes. He wants nobody inside of his head but himself, and not even that sometimes. But he nods in response, knowing he has to play the part.

But soon...oh, but soon.

Joker has not left his side during this particular run; Akechi has been at his right hand since they entered. That means he’s had a front row seat to all of his...eccentricities. The way he twirls his dagger in his hand and grandstands in front of the enemies, gesturing to them, taunting them. The way he wipes his sweat-slick hair up from his forehead, raking it back and fanning himself to cool down. The way he sheds his coat, sometimes, transforming from self-professed gentleman thief to someone exposing a lot more skin than truly necessary. His arms all but glow under the casino lighting, as pale as they are.

They hit a cluster of enemies that keeps them on their toes, fire and ice and lightning streaking through the empty space and scorching the walls, freezing the floors. Messy. Sloppy. He downs his own enemy with a burst of Almighty light and twirls his gun between his fingers, looking to the side to gauge the process of the rest of the Thieves.

It’s a mistake, an error that he pays for with the sound of a grunt behind him and a shoulder into the small of his back, shoving him away as razor-sharp claws land not centimeters away, raking into black leather instead of his own white attire.

Joker rises like a fallen swan, the tails of his coat sweeping around him, flaring out when he lurches back, one hand on his arm, his mouth a grimace below his mask. It’s impossible to see bright blood on red gloves or dark leather but Akechi knows the scent from times before, the rich and bitter tang of iron unmistakable.

There’s shouting from behind, above, the sides, wherever the others are. It’s self-interest that has Akechi step forward and tear his mask off. Facing off against a Rangda with his curse-heavy Persona in the forefront? Is he suicidal?

Not that Akechi cares. “Robin Hood!” he calls, and like a loyal dog his Persona douses the Shadow in brilliant light, obliterating it without giving it a chance to fight back. Just as he prefers.

Behind him there’s a commotion as the rest of them pile upon their leader with a hundred voices and grasping hands. Akechi turns to survey the scene; Joker hasn’t gotten up fully, remaining crouched with one blood-sticky hand clamped tight over a cut high on his bicep. He waves off the talking cat’s attempt to heal him, then Niijima junior as well. Just as well; they’re all running low on SP, and there are plenty of healing items back in the safe room. This was meant to be a simple training exercise, at least on this floor; the halls are twisty, and some of the group have stealth skills in need of improvement.

Or so Joker says, disregarding the fact that this is to be their last outing as the notorious Phantom Thieves. His as well, since after they finish this palace he’ll be dead.

It’s more difficult than usual to keep his smile in check, though that changes when Joker demands he escort him to the safe room, insisting that the rest of the team continue on with their training. There’s nothing on this floor that can seriously hurt them, not at their level of skill.

It is a little curious that none of them try to follow them. For a while, Akechi wasn’t so much as allowed to be directly to Joker’s side; one of the Thieves always acted as a buffer.

Perhaps he _has_ won into their confidences.

The safe room isn’t far; turn two corners and head down a long stretch of hallway to a third, all recently cleared of Shadows. It’s as safe a path as one can find in this Palace, and yet something feels off to Akechi, keeps him vigilant until the door closes behind them.

Nothing they’ve seen has been able to access a safe room. Theoretically, they’re safe from even the Palace ruler inside one. So why can’t Akechi untense?

Perhaps it’s the way Joker’s staring at him.

“You should take your jacket off so it doesn’t get caught when you heal,” Akechi says, crossing the floor to the discarded backpacks full of curry buns and energy drinks and bandaids and other esoteric palace paraphernalia. They even have bottles of unlabeled pills, one of which he pulls out and gives a shake. It rattles satisfyingly. “One of these, perhaps?”

“In a minute.” There’s nothing but pleasant neutrality in Joker’s voice, but something about it makes Akechi still, like a fawn under the gaze of some large predator. He twists around to see Joker perched on the edge of the pool table, a black puddle of shadow beneath bright lights. He isn’t acting like he was earlier; he’s not clutching his arm, his face isn’t twisted in a grimace of pain. There’s still blood— Akechi can see it now, dark wetness on matte black under harsh lights— but Joker isn’t paying it any mind. “I think we need to have a talk.”

As he says that, he strips off his coat. Unbidden, Akechi’s eyes stray to the chiseled lines of his shoulders and biceps, blood smeared up and down one pale arm almost to the elbow. There’s no sign of a wound. “Where did you—”

“That’s not what we’re here to talk about.” The jacket puddles uselessly on the floor. It takes more willpower than he wants to admit to keep his eyes from lingering.

“Then what—”

“Maybe about the way you keep eye-fucking me the second you think my back is turned?”

Akechi stops moving. There’s an ugly feeling growing in the pit of his stomach, almost a match to the ugly smirk twisting Joker’s lips beneath his mask. “Excuse me?”

Joker slithers off the table in a motion both feline and serpentine, his footfalls silent on the thin carpet coating the floor. “You heard me.” It’s only when he gets closer that Akechi remembers his position kneeling by the bags; he goes to stand up as fast as he can but Joker is faster.

His hand lands on Akechi’s shoulder, keeping him down. “What’s the problem, Akechi?”

“It’s Crow in here, like you’ve insisted,” he grits out, standing up regardless of the force Joker exerts trying to keep him down. Joker clearly lets up somewhat about halfway, but his hand remains. They’re almost of a height, though Joker is a scant inch taller in his heeled boots. From here he can see that amid the bloody mess, Joker’s arm is pristine. “If you’d already healed yourself, then why did you insist on—”

“You’re not a very good listener,” Joker interrupts him, his hand rising to place one gloved finger against Akechi’s lips. He’d bite it if he wasn’t positive that Joker would retaliate. “You look. Don’t try to lie to me, _Crow—”_ he says it mockingly, as if he’s only doing it to appease him. “I have more eyes than just mine.”

“So the entirety of the Phantom Thieves has nothing better to do than track what I’m looking at?” Akechi snaps. Joker’s hand moves, his thumb pressing into the corner of his lips, stroking up his cheek. “Why are you _touching_ me?!”

Joker laughs at that, a low deep rumble that does things to Akechi that he refuses to think about on more than a reactionary level. “Maybe for the same reason that you like to stare at my ass.”

“It’s not like anyone can see it with the coat—” Akechi blurts without meaning, and instantly regrets it when that ugly smirk slashes its way across Joker’s mouth again.

“So you admit it, you do look—”

“Shut up!” His hand moves between them to shove Joker back and away, but when he pushes he’s dragged along as well; Joker’s hand has fisted in his collar. “Let me go!”

“I don’t think so.” Joker reels him in further and drapes both arms around his shoulders in a parody of an embrace. Akechi can see the mad glint in his eye, the way he bares his teeth like a rabid dog, far more intimately than he ever wanted to. “Let’s get that stick out of your ass first and then I’ll consider it.”

Akechi doesn’t even see his hand move; one moment his mask is firmly on his face, the next Joker has it by the nose (he HATES the nose, why, _why,_ WHY) and flings it across the room. It clatters to the ground somewhere; Akechi can’t see where, because Joker’s hand digs into the hair at the nape of his neck and reels him in. Joker’s mask digs into the bridge of his nose and the top of his cheeks, and Joker’s mouth crushes against his lips.

 _Now_ Akechi shouts. _Now_ he struggles, but all Joker does is laugh against his skin, his breath hot where it mingles with Akechi’s own. His hands scrabble at Joker’s vest; even he doesn’t know if he’s trying to shove him away or grab hold of him, but all it accomplishes is sending them both off balance and crashing to the floor.

Joker pins him down with an ease that sends Akechi into a blind rage. “That’s right,” he goads, his stupid grin spurring him to dig both hands into the back of Joker’s vest and _pull_. “Show me what you’ve got.”

All Akechi can do is snarl in response and heave them over. They go tumbling across the floor, legs and arms tangling, Akechi attempting a headbutt that’s blocked with ease, until they fetch up against the legs of the pool table in a tangle of limbs and cloth. Somehow one of the tails of Akechi’s capelet has wound itself around Joker’s forearm, all but binding them together. Akechi’s somehow out of breath already, even though he spends hours in the Metaverse alone and never breaks a sweat.

Joker takes the opportunity to shove his tongue into Akechi’s open mouth, hot and wet and foreign and he’s lucky that Akechi doesn’t bite it off immediately but only because Joker’s hand returns to the back of his hair and _pulls._ Then his lips move down, to his chin, to his throat, teeth and tongue closing around the tendon at the side.

Akechi’s lost track of his arms, of his hands. He locates them wrapped around Joker’s shoulder, his back, fisted into the seams of his vest so hard that they creak.

Now would be a good opportunity to shove him back.

His head would hit the table.

Maybe it would crack like an eggshell.

Joker’s tongue swipes up the side of his neck. Disgusting. He hasn’t bathed since last night. The hand that isn’t in Akechi’s hair meets the crux between Akechi’s legs and discovers, at about the same time as Akechi himself, his untimely erection.

He freezes. Joker doesn’t, laughing into his skin and unwinding his arm from Akechi’s cape. “I knew you’d be happy to see me,” he murmurs, his hand kneading into him and making him gasp.

Unacceptable. He headbutts Joker square in the face.

He’s clearly not expecting it this time; his head rocks back as Akechi’s slams forward, and Akechi immediately regrets it when the corner of his mask slices into his brow with a sunburst of pain. It’s enough to make him grunt, enough to make Joker shout and tackle him down to the floor. He hits hard enough to drive the breath from his lungs.

There’s a wet trickle making its way down his face, but head wounds always bleed. He’s not concerned. Neither is Joker, from the look of it, from the way he slots in between Akechi’s thighs and rolls his hips down onto Akechi’s own as if in a lewd parody. From what Akechi can feel, he’s just as aroused, and even as he bares his teeth and snarls up a hot coil of excitement settles in his gut.

Across the floor again; this time Joker is the one to throw them backwards, even though his position was already advantageous. No matter; it just gives Akechi another chance to get on top, a goal made difficult by the way Joker moves like an octopus, like he’s boneless. Akechi gets him on his back and he slithers away. Akechi gets him pinned and he flips them, his knee grazing across Akechi’s crotch and sending tingles up his spine.

Somehow in their next round of scuffling Joker pins him chest first on the ground, both hands twisted behind him and held pinned by the weight of Joker’s body as his free hand gropes around the front of his pants, grabbing onto him and squeezing, pulling, touching him in a way that makes him shout and buck forward. LIke a tease Joker’s hand draws away, forcing him to chase it, at least until he hears the dark chuckle beside his ear. “Begging for it already?”

He doesn’t get a chance to reply. Joker’s hand digs into his hair and pulls his head back, making his whole body curve in an effort to follow it if he doesn’t want his hair ripped out at the roots. They’ve fetched up against the pool table again, and Joker stands up and leans back against it, letting Akechi go just long enough for him to twist around and look before grabbing him again.

With his free hand, he pops the button on his slacks and draws the zipper down, pulling himself out. Akechi feels his eyes go wide, and an unexpected lassitude fall upon his shoulders, weighing him down and numbing his tongue. He doesn’t have it in him to protest. Something inside of him perks up in interest.

“It your first time?” Joker pants, his teeth bared in threat or excitement, Akechi can’t tell. There’s blood in his eyelashes, and the hand gripping his hair won’t let him tilt very far. “Don’t worry, it’s not difficult. Open your mouth. If you bite me, you’ll regret it.”

Something about the words or the tone makes Akechi’s erection throb, makes his head go light and fuzzy. His jaw goes slack. Joker’s own erection slides across his face to rest on his bottom lip, leaving a sticky trail behind.

Unbidden, his tongue touches the tip. He’s never imagined what one would taste like, so he can’t categorize it by _good_ or _bad_ or any other qualifier. Joker makes a pleased noise above him. His hand tugs on Akechi’s hair, somehow soft. “Good boy,” he says. “Suck on it.”

Akechi’s eaten bananas and popsicles before. That’s the closest experience he’s ever had to the sensation of a penis inside his mouth. It’s bigger than any banana or popsicle. Warmer, too. It fills his mouth almost uncomfortably, pushing in until he has to stretch his jaw wider than he’s ever done. Joker doesn’t push him, an unexpected kindness; the hand in his hair loosens, fingers running through once, twice, before he takes hold again. “I said suck.”

It’s difficult to figure out how, for a moment. He has to move his tongue, has to figure out what to do with his cheeks, has to panic for a moment when he thinks he can’t breathe but then remembers how to use his nose. All he can smell is Joker. All he can see is red gloves and pale skin and dark clothes and the backs of his own eyelids. He sucks, and is rewarded by a burst of bitter fluid on his tongue and a satisfied noise from above. “Very good. Keep going.”

It’s not _easy_ to fall into a rhythm, precisely, but when he’s so surrounded it’s hard to think of doing anything different. He finds the most comfortable way to hold his mouth, the best and most careful way to breathe. He moves his tongue again, presses the penis against the roof of his mouth with it. Joker groans. “Clever. Do that again.” He does. “ _Ah..._ good. Good boy. How are your knees?”

They’re sore. He opens his eyes a slit when he feels Joker move, wondering if he actually wants an answer, and gets an answer in turn when Joker moves him off, breaking the seal of his lips. Spittle and other fluid make the erection shiny, flushed red and eager. Something drops between them— Joker’s coat. “Come here.”

When Akechi doesn’t move fast enough, Joker pulls him hard enough that he whines, that his own neglected cock aching. He follows, all but tripping over himself, grabbing onto Joker’s shin to steady himself. Joker’s erection knocks him in the face again; Joker grabs onto the back of his head and guides him back on, praising him when he drops his jaw again like an obedient dog. “Good, so good, hold still—”

His hips start moving in tiny increments, thrusting further and further into Akechi’s mouth until he hits the back of his throat. Akechi gags; Joker outright moans, his other hand coming up to cup the side of Akechi’s face. “God,” he sighs, “the mouth on you—”

He tugs Akechi further down his erection, thrusting at the same time until Akechi’s nose is almost buried in the wiry thatch of pubic hair at his crotch, until Akechi needs to straddle his leg to stay up on his knees. His own cock gets pinned between his stomach and the rigid length of Joker’s shin; the noise he makes as he grinds against it unintentionally is, thankfully, muffled as Joker thrusts in again.

And again.

And again, and now the hand in his hair trembles, the hand on his face strokes down the side of his jaw, the curve of his lips where he’s stretched wide and sealed tight, and Joker says something, or maybe he just moans sharp and loud and pulls Akechi all the way down until his nose mashes against his stomach and his throat is full and he can’t breathe can’t think can’t breathe—

And then Joker cries out, a noise full of self satisfaction, and yanks Akechi off of him.

He barely notices the fluid that spatters across his face, too preoccupied with gasping for air in thick, wet open-mouthed huffs. The sweetness of returning oxygen overpowers even the bitter taste as he licks his dry lips, his grip on Joker’s pant leg white-knuckled beneath stained gloves. He ruts uncontrollably, breathless in more ways than one, so close to his own edge that he can see it—

Without warning Joker’s leg kicks out, his shin hitting Akechi in the sternum and knocking him back onto his rear. He chokes out a noise of affront with the last of his breath, drawing in another to slice into him with whatever dregs of wit he has left.

Before he can Joker’s boot knocks his knees apart, exposing his erection, where he strains against the fabric. “If you’re going to act like a bitch,” he says, low and dark and erotica incarnate, “then get off like a dog, and be grateful I don’t make you beg for it.”

Akechi’s trying to form words when the ball of his foot lands square on his arousal, pressing down hard enough to make him see stars. Maybe he shouts. Maybe he howls. Maybe all he does is breathe. He doesn’t know. He can’t think. He can’t think. All he can do is rut against the friction he’s given, his hand at Joker’s calf, his ankle, whining when he steps down hard enough to make it _hurt,_ hard enough to make it feel even _better_ , unsynchronized and sloppy and begging without words until he cries out one last time, arms reeling him in, making him bear down harder, harder, _harder!!!_

It’s horrible. It’s bliss. His forehead meets slick fabric. He pants with open mouth and lolling tongue, whimpering like any mean junkyard dog on a hot day. Beneath the devilish pressure of Joker’s boot, the wet stain spreads, warm and clammy.

He’s shaking, he notices with detachment. How long has he been shaking?

When Joker finally deigns to step back, Akechi doesn’t stop him, letting go of his slacks with no complaint. He uses his free hands instead to brace himself, still trying to catch his breath, still trying to draw back the curtains of his facade. It’s harder than he thought it would be. When he kills this boy every single second will be sweeter than the last.

As his ardor cools, the embarrassingly sticky patch at the front of his pants makes itself louder and more obvious, as do the strands of effluvia across his forehead, his cheeks, his lips. He swipes an ineffectual sleeve across his face, or tries to before he’s intercepted. “Wait,” Joker says, his gloved hand on Akechi’s wrist, keeping him from soiling himself even more. “Bend over.”

 _I don’t take orders from you,_ Akechi thinks but doesn’t say. _I could kill you here where you stand and none of your little lackies could so much as touch me. I could pick them off one by one and they’d be powerless to stop me._

Joker’s hand presses against the back of his head, where it had been fisted in his hair mere minutes ago. Akechi lets his head tilt to the side, and closes his eyes as bottled water sluices across his skin, rinsing blood and semen and saliva alike down to puddle on the tacky carpet.

He doesn’t say anything after that; Joker presses a second water bottle into his hand, and his boots clomp away as Akechi keeps rinsing. He’s sure it’s for his benefit. He’d never be so loud outside the safe room.

There’s the sound of something ripping all the way across the room, and the sound of Joker’s boots grow louder once more before something settles on top of his head just as the water bottle runs dry.It’s coarse fabric, ripped from one of the wall hangings. Not only thievery, but defiling their surroundings as well.

It’s not like he expected more.

The weave is almost shockingly rough against skin somehow made more sensitive by the assault it’s just been through. He drags it down his forehead, wiping the corners of his eyes and along the side of his nose in smooth, precise movements.

Neither of them speak after he’s finished, after he’s folded the ripped fabric into a square and set it aside, not until Joker says “Are you sure you’ve finished?” from where he’s perched on the pool table in the center of the room.

“Yes,” Akechi says, not exactly a question, not fully a statement.

Joker doesn’t look at him, but the corners of his mouth tilt up. “Gonna be an uncomfortable walk back to the entrance.”

 _Now_ he flushes hot and red again, the empty water bottle crumpling in his fist. “I don’t see how that’s any of your concern,” he says, short and clipped.

He’s not sure why it’s that of all things that gets Joker’s full attention back on him; he sets the dagger he was twirling through his fingers down on the felted tabletop and turns to face him fully. “Is there a reason you’re not going to wipe yourself down, or is it you being stubborn?”

“Does it matter?” Akechi snaps. His nerves are frayed and his patience is gone. “If you’re done, I think it’s about time we go and meet up with the others—”

Joker’s boots hit the floor in what feels like the same motion that has him looming over Akechi, still flat on the ground. “If you’re going to be an idiot about it, I suppose I’ll have to help.”

“What—” Akechi starts before Joker drops to the ground, all but straddling his thighs.

“After all,” he says, dripping honey and vinegar in the same breath, “wouldn’t do for me to work a silly little bitch up and not help with the cleanup, wouldn’t it?”  
  
His hand is on Akechi’s zipper before he can react, unsnapping the button and exposing the mess at his crotch in two quick motions. His hands dig into the waistband of his pants and underwear and drag them halfway down his knees, a motion that sends Akechi backwards hard enough that he barely manages to catch himself. “Joker!” he yelps, flailing around in an effort to get him _off_ of him, hasn’t he done enough already?!

He slaps upward, the rough cloth still in his hand, smacking Joker hard enough in the face that it skews his mask a centimeter or two to the side. “Will you just—”

“Leave it.” It’s curt and sharp and Akechi drops the cloth before he even registers opening his hand. It lands on his chest. The room goes silent. Akechi realizes he’s panting again through is bared teeth. “Keep your hands on the ground.”

Akechi sucks in a breath and holds it. Joker adjusts his mask. His dark eyes don’t waver. Akechi is the first one to look away, to look down.

Joker picks the cloth up between two fingers and wets it from another water bottle. It’s cold and harsh on his flaccid penis, and he snarls, but Joker doesn’t stop. He methodically dabs along every inch, rubs the cloth across every crevice, even going so far as to take him between two fingers and lift him up to wipe down the underside, down to his scrotum, until Akechi all but shakes from overstimulation.

It’s clinical, without judgement or heat. Joker’s expression doesn’t change, as if he’s simply polishing his dagger instead of...polishing Akechi’s dagger. He’s lost his belief in god long ago, but if one was there he’d thank it fervently for the fact that he’s still too spent to harden again.

In the end he’s soaked and cold from his pubic bone to his thighs, but clean enough to walk around without the spectre of his own fluids staining the inside of his trousers. Joker finally lets go of him, allowing him to yank his pants and underwear back up over his hips, zipping and buttoning himself with fingers that tremble no matter how he tries to stop them. Joker doesn’t move back, either; he stays where he is, hunched over Akechi, watching him with those fathomless eyes.

The silence in the room is heavy and oppressive now. It’s stifling. Akechi’s own breathing sounds louder and harsher than he wants it to. He can’t hear Joker breathe at all. He can’t meet his eyes anymore, either; now that everything has been said and done, now that he fully recognizes the scope of his actions, there’s a dull flush crawling up his neck and spreading across his cheeks.

Joker _tsks,_ startling him. “None of that,” he says in a parody of an affectionate tone. His hand comes up to squeeze Akechi’s cheeks, to tilt his head more towards him. “Take pride in a job well done.”

He can’t even summon up the fury any more. “W-why,” he starts, biting back the rest of the sentence when his voice cracks on the first syllable.

Joker knows what he means anyway. His lips curl, mocking and inviting. His hand slides down the bare skin of Akechi’s throat until they nestle beneath the high collar of his jacket, his forefinger and thumb curving around to either side. Sparks of green shiver up from the connection, what feels like a Dia healing the scrape on his head and the pain in his nose and throat. Akechi shivers.

“Maybe,” Joker says, low and conversational, “I wanted to throw a dog a bone.”

His lips meet Akechi’s again, brief hot pressure, before he stands up and turns around, all business again. “Once you’re ready, meet us back at the hallway,” he says as he pulls his coat back on and fills the pockets with curry breads and canned drinks. Then he sweeps out the door without so much as looking at him.

Akechi doesn’t answer. He doesn’t look up as Joker leaves, either.

He touches his throat, but the phantom pressure of a collar that was never actually there won’t go away.  


 

* * *

 

 

 

_ The grin on his face is almost feral, wild and out of control. Futaba doesn’t have to ask, but she does anyway, almost dreading the answer. “Did it work?” _

_ “We’ll see,” Akira tells her, a thousand miles away and yet more present then he’s been in weeks. “We’ll see.” _

_ “What did you say to him?” _

_ He shakes his head, but his grin sharpens even more. “What he wanted to hear. Don’t ask for more, Taba-chan. You won’t like the answers you get.” _

_ Somewhere down the hall the safe room door opens, and Futaba’s navigator connection with Akechi clicks back into place for a split second. All she gets is a maelstrom of raw, uncomfortable emotion before she gasps and thins it down to the minimum with brute force. “What did you  _ **_do?!_ ** _ ” _

_ “I gave him a treat,” Akira says with a smile full of razor blades. “Now I wait and see if he comes crawling back for another one.” _

**Author's Note:**

> i'm super active at my twitters come yell at me there:
> 
>  
> 
> [caanticle is my sfw twitter](https://twitter.com/caanticle)  
> [cantiafterdark is my nsfw twitter, and i don't allow anyone who doesn't have a clear birthdate/age in their profile to follow!](https://twitter.com/cantiafterdark)


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